


mouth wide open

by DaughteroftheCosmos



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Mouth Kink, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Unusual Erogenous Zones, accidentally!!, dom/sub elements, i dont even have a hand kink i just like describing things!!, jonelias happens in 4TH chapter now not 3rd, let me know if i should tag anything else, let me know if i should tag anything else!, light humiliation/degredation, this is not set during ANY reasonable time period and I Dont Care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21588712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaughteroftheCosmos/pseuds/DaughteroftheCosmos
Summary: Written for a TMA kink meme prompt that grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let me go until this was written.https://rusty-kink.dreamwidth.org/1380.html?page=10#comments"The deeper into being the Archivist Jon gets, the more his mouth and throat subtly change, until they're fully fledged erogenous zones and he can come just from a few fingers rubbing his tongue or down his throat. Does he explore this by himself? Does someone notice and take advantage, make him deepthroat them and come his brains out? do he and daisy explore this as a d/s relationship? does he fantasize about Martin's big fingers in his mouth? dealer's choice sky's the limit"(wrote jonelias bc right now thats my brand)
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 87
Kudos: 356





	1. Chapter 1

Jon is finally starting to get a little worried.

He knows as well as anyone how long that can take him to do, that he’ll forget to eat and drink and sleep without batting an eye and it really doesn’t worry him like it should. Lord knows he’s had Georgie and Martin on his case about it enough times, having to remind him to perform normal human behaviours that should be natural to remember. At this point, though, in all fairness it’s… unclear how much of any of those things Jon really  _ needs _ anymore, so perhaps it’s moot, and really that’s not what he’s worried about anyway, which is.

His throat itches.

He notices it for the first time while recording a statement, something sticking in his throat even after the words on the page fade away. He’s used to the feeling of someone else’s fear, used to swallowing it down like a starving man, but he isn’t used to anything lingering like this. It doesn’t feel quite like any of the statements before have, though, and when it lasts long after he finishes recording he supposes it must be something more mundane.

At first, it feels like he has a cough, that same sort of prickling at the back of your throat, so he buys a pack of cough drops and some medicinal tea and tries to be done with it. He doesn’t have time to worry about getting sick on top of everything else, trying to manage the Archives and taking the bare minimum steps to actually attempt to care for his own wellbeing, so he decides not to worry about this. In hindsight he supposes he should have considered that if he doesn’t need to  _ eat _ then he probably can’t catch a common  _ cold, _ but hindsight is 20/20 and all that, and- he doesn’t. Consider it. Not until much too late, that is.

It  _ isn’t _ a cough, is the thing, which Jon realizes from the combination of the facts that his throat still itches despite the drops and that not once does he remember actually  _ coughing, _ only the tingling feeling filling his throat and mouth and starting to ache.

It  _ isn’t _ a cough, so then Jon tries the tea, something warm and herbal and stirred with honey, and it does feel nice.

Too nice.

It feels warm and smooth in his mouth, almost caresses his throat as he swallows it, which obviously isn’t  _ normal _ . He takes another careful sip and it’s the same, heat like sparks down his throat and up his spine, and he almost breaks his mug with how hard he slams it down onto his desk. It feels  _ so good _ , which is of course when he first starts to really worry, because things don’t feel good unless they are somehow dangerous or supernatural or lying or all of the above.

He’s worried, is the thing, worried about how it isn’t getting better, about how each possibly unnecessary bite of food feels like sandpaper scraping down his throat, about how when he opens his mouth to ask a question the thick static of compulsion vibrating in his mouth feels like fingers stroking down his cock, about how bad he wants to  _ touch.  _

He catches himself resting pens against his lips, biting his fingernails, on one memorable occasion licking over his lips in circles until Martin has to ask if he’s alright, snapping him out of it. Stammering and red he insists he’s  _ fine, thank you Martin, no he doesn’t need anything _ and tries not to think about what Martin’s fingers would feel like shoved down his throat, wrapped around it, making him choke and whine and beg-

He’s worried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wrote this WAY faster than i expected, y'all are welcome. third chapter will either be awhile or will come this weekend: its thanksgiving in the us so im doing Family Stuff but im always horny for jonelias so... we'll see!
> 
> Enjoy! comments and kudos are ALWAYS appreciated and loved.

Jon honestly can’t take it anymore.

It’s been  _ weeks _ of this, of dodging questions from Martin about why he isn’t eating, of trying to think of new excuses about why he doesn’t want any tea, of finding himself in an almost dream-like state, both hands rubbing soft against his neck or one threatening to shove into his mouth. It’s like he can’t  _ help _ himself, like he needs something in his mouth so bad he might actually die, although he knows that absolutely isn’t true. 

Then he spends about a day panicking that it  _ might  _ be true, actually, because it’s weird and happening to him and is making him miserable, and plenty of weirder things have tried to kill him, and it’s not like it’s  _ impossible _ . Maybe there’s an Artefact trying to make him want to choke himself to death, or the Web is just playing tricks on him, or some other Entity… just really wants him to be horny, he guesses. But all of those seem too ridiculous, so his paranoia burns out by the end of the day. Probably just some more Archivist weirdness, which isn’t exactly  _ better _ , but at least it’s a weirdness he (sort of) knows how to deal with, and he’d take that over the Web. 

He tries wearing a scarf for a while to keep himself from touching his neck, but the rough threads feel like sandpaper peeling away at his skin. He spends a miserable day trying to convince himself it’s worth it, that at least he isn’t getting hard from touching his  _ neck _ anymore, for God’s sake, but the pain gets to the point where he can’t even bring himself to record a statement. Finally he just rips it off and spends almost ten minutes scratching at the itchy skin until it feels so good he can’t remember why he started. The next day he tries a soft, silk scarf instead, but the smooth, cool fabric just makes him blush and need to adjust himself in his seat, so he gives up on that too. 

Through it all, a persistent, niggling thought worms its way into his mind, despite his best efforts to contain it:  _ why not just do it? Why not just give in? Suck your fingers down, feel them solid against your tongue, choking down your throat. It will feel so good and you know it, and it can’t hurt anything. _

He tells that thought to kindly shut the fuck up and let him work, obviously, but it gets harder every time. He’d never noticed  _ hands _ quite so much, before, but is definitely noticing them now. Martin’s strong, thick fingers scooping up a stack of papers, Tim’s hard, sturdy palms gesturing wildly as he emphasizes a point Jon’s forgotten to listen to, hell, even Elias’s, slender and smooth, tapping on his desk while giving Jon some sort of report. They’re a pianist’s hands, long, thin fingers that curl and curve, perfect fingernails trimmed short enough to be professional but long enough to scratch. He wants them  _ buried _ in his throat, and he tries to think about anything else while Elias finishes talking. 

As he’s led to the door of Elias’s office he’s hit with the sudden, vivid image of himself on his knees, naked on the floor with his arms tied behind his back and Elias’s hands in his hair, pulling him mercilessly onto his cock. He’s  _ choking  _ on it, failing to hold back tears as Elias sets a relentless pace, but the Jon in his head moans through every thrust, as he thinks for a second he can see the outline of Elias’s cock pressing through his throat. 

He gasps and stops, turns towards Elias to gauge his reaction, only to meet an innocent and vaguely concerned expression perfectly painted onto his features.

“Jon? Are you quite alright?” he asks, not a trace of anything untoward in his tone. “You look very pale. Would you like me to give you a hand?”

Jon’s face somehow gets even redder at this, and he has the feeling that not only does Elias know exactly what Jon was just thinking about those hands but also that he  _ must _ have sent him that image of himself. But there’s nothing in Elias’s face or voice to betray it, and half of him wonders if he’s only so convinced because he thinks it would be worse if they really  _ were _ just his thoughts, and that’s- that’s quite enough of that.

“I’m fine, Elias,” he snaps, angry with him for being such a bastard and angry with himself for wanting anyway. “I don’t need anything from you.” With that he turns quickly back around and pushes out of the office, somehow managing not to look back.

After that, though, he can’t quite make that niggling thought stay quiet, and the temptation to give into something he doesn’t remember why he’s been resisting becomes too much to bear. He doesn’t make a habit of- of… self-pleasuring, sees it as essentially unnecessary and time-consuming, and even a bit shameful, though he knows how ridiculous that is. When he feels the urge he generally tries to get it over with nicely, simply, and quickly, and doesn’t feel the need to make a production of anything. Now, though, knowing what he plans to do, he can’t help feeling a bit humiliated at his own expense, even as he crawls into bed and lies down, decided. 

His body is tense with how badly he wants this, his throat’s itching feeling at its worst. It  _ hurts _ , is the thing, hurts when he isn’t touching it, and thinks to himself that this must be justifiable as a method of relieving pain, not just… allowing himself a moment of unnecessary pleasure.

Feeling rather foolish, even with how badly he wants it, Jon finally takes a deep breath before opening his mouth and slipping a finger inside.

It’s… soft inside, so soft, warm and wet and perfect, and he cant resist running his finger slow and purposeful along the inside of his cheeks, along his tongue until he shivers, down his throat as far as he can before the fluttering makes him gag. It doesn’t take much, throat sensitive and prickling with sensation, but the feeling of his throat closing down around his finger feels so impossibly good it takes him longer than it should to remove his hand, choking out shuddering breaths that shake his frame and leave him aching. His hands shake as he clenches his fists by his sides, face aflame and jaw clenched, overwhelmed at how much he  _ wants _ . He’s barely even touched himself, hasn’t touched himself at all if you think about it normally, but he can feel the heat in his blood and the wet warmth of his mouth and the fog in his brain and wants to  _ drown.  _

He doesn’t even think about touching his cock, even with it straining against his trousers, just slides his hand back up his body until it rests at his neck. Even that makes him shiver, he cannot  _ believe _ \- he feels so, so needy and debased. It feels a Herculean effort to move his hand at all, caught between the craving to slip it back between his lips and the desire to clench it tight back down by his side. He isn’t used to wanting, not like this, and red-hot shame rises in him even as he makes his choice and drifts his hand slow and careful up his neck. 

It feels desperately good, just that, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing gentle patterns into the soft skin of his throat, tracing up and around aimlessly until they rest over his beating pulse. He slides his hand up a bit more and, just for a moment, imagines what it would feel like if it was someone else’s hands, long and slender, hovering over his throat and starting to  _ press- _

But that’s too much, and he doesn’t want to (can’t) think about what that means, and he really can’t wait any longer, so finally he relents and pushes three fingers, quick as anything, into his waiting mouth. 

Sensation  _ bursts _ behind his eyelids, and he moans without thinking, low and long, and the sound tangles in his fingers and shudders in his throat and he moans again. He grabs his tongue and pulls it hard and slides it wet and firm between his fingers and fucks in and out of that perfect space. When his throat can’t bear the emptiness any longer he moves his fingers, slips them down, down and  _ presses _ and it’s over, over in seconds. When he comes back to himself, half his hand is still sitting in his mouth, and when he pulls his fingers out he shudders with the aftershocks. His throat feels tight and sore and he belatedly realizes he must have been choking on his fingers when he came and that’s- that’s a lot. He really isn’t entirely sure how to feel about that, especially when he feels more relaxed than he has in weeks.

Jon finally struggles out of his trousers and ruined pants, grimacing at the mess. Stumbling into the bathroom, he goes to wash his hands, observing his own face in the mirror. He doesn’t  _ look _ any different, no tell-tale sign showing that any… physical changes have happened, but when he slowly presses a shaking finger against his lips the shudder tells him everything he needs to know. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok all i caved and am posting the wip of what i had intended to be the start of the 3rd chapter, am making it the 3rd chapter, and will finish the jonelias for the new 4th chapter. i just really want y'all to see what ive done! (and give myself some motivation to finish it lol)
> 
> comments and kudos always loved and appreciated <3

The thing is, it doesn’t get better.

He makes a habit of this new ritual, at first with the excuse that he’ll only do it “one more time” until even he can see it’s transparent. Then he starts telling himself it’s necessary, almost like a medical procedure- a process of pain relief and nothing more… insidious. And it  _ isn’t _ really insidious at all, it’s not as if he’s actually doing anything _ wrong, _ plenty of people masturbate frequently and that’s- that’s not a problem! It just isn’t Jon.

Or wasn’t Jon.

He can tell that people know something is wrong with him, too, even more than before. He tries to focus at work, really tries, and he needs the statements anyway so he  _ does _ still read them. It’s just that he’s actually started leaving at the end of the normal work day. Every day. Even just staying until 5:00 is getting hard, now that he knows what’s waiting for him at home.

It still hurts, is the thing, his nighttime tradition an extremely temporary relief. By morning the itching’s started up again, and halfway through the workday it’s an effort not to throw himself out a window with how much it hurts. Every time Martin throws him a pitying glance, Jon has to struggle not to blush.  _ God, if he knew what was going on…  _ Jon knows he would never live it down, could never live with himself. It’s too personal, too strange, too unlike him, and he would rather die of whatever this is then the sheer embarrassment of watching the realization sink into Martin’s or Tim’s or Basira’s (ESPECIALLY Basira’s) eyes. He can almost hear Tim’s disgusted diatribe about yet another way Jon is turning into a monster, can almost see in his mind’s eye the hideous pity that would fill Martin, and he spends every single day telling himself it’s worth it as long as none of them ever find out.

Elias, though.

Elias’s presence in the office has greatly increased over the last few weeks, seemingly innocently (well, as innocently as a murderer can do anything). Jon runs into him in the hallways almost daily, only to be met with the same kind(?) smile and a “Is there something I can do for you, Jon?” to which Jon always responds with a vague, dismissive comment before awkwardly walking away. He  _ swears _ Elias must know something about what’s happening, might know everything, even, and the thought needles in the back of Jon’s mind as much as his worries about his actual situation. But he hasn’t tipped his hand, hasn’t said or done anything to reveal what he may or may not know, hasn’t even made a single incriminating damned facial expression for Jon to go off of. It’s infuriating, and Jon honestly can’t tell if it’s because Elias is waiting for Jon to tip  _ his _ hand or if he legitimately doesn’t know. 

What’s worse is that he can’t tell which outcome he’d really prefer, anymore. 

Memories of that image of himself on his knees surface into his mind almost every time he… relieves himself, now. It doesn’t feel like Elias is pushing anything into his head, at least not anymore (if at all), and he has to pretend  _ really, really hard _ that it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just that he’s never thought about what it would be like to suck someone’s dick, let alone Elias’s, but now that the picture’s in his head he can’t seem to make it leave. It’s like a tape stuck on loop, clicking and replaying the same video of Jon, naked and bound, helpless and vulnerable and at Elias’s mercy. It’s not even that he wants to “suck his dick,” exactly, but he thinks about how it might feel in his throat to choke on something that size, bigger than his fingers and without straining his wrist, and it. Well, it’s a nice thought, and something in him knows that the rest is nice too, the crying and the begging and the straining. He just doesn’t know what to do about it, about any of it, about what he wants or doesn’t want or especially about actually stopping the itch. So he buckles down and works as diligently as he can and comes his brains out every night with his hand down his throat, and convinces himself that he’s fine.

Eventually, though, as he knew it would, everything breaks down. 

It’s about 12:00, and most of the other Institute employees are taking a break for lunch. Jon is just preparing to read a new statement, which at this point is essentially the same thing for him, when he hears a knock at his office door. 

_ Probably Martin seeing if he wants to get lunch, or even Basira here out of sheer pity.  _ With that thought, he calls out, “come in,” without turning around, expecting to hear one of their voices behind him. 

“Hello, Jon,” Elias says, as smoothly and smarmy as he says anything no matter the context, making Jon whip his head around suddenly to face the sound. Elias is standing there, one hand on the doorknob to his office and the other holding a steaming ceramic mug, as out of place as anything. “It seems you haven’t been feeling well, so I thought I’d bring you a cup of tea.”

Jon can only blink, startled past speaking, and watches as Elias fully enters the room and places the mug on his desk next to the statement and tape recorder. He smiles down at them, almost proudly, before turning to fully face Jon. 

“I do hope it helps. An Archivist’s work is dreadfully important, and we wouldn’t want anything to compromise that. I think we can both agree on that, yes?” 

Jon clears his throat before responding. “Yes- yes of course. I- I’ve just been feeling a bit under the weather, I suppose, nothing too serious,” he says, desperately praying Elias really somehow doesn’t know the truth. “The work comes first, of course,” he says more firmly, trying to steer the conversation away from him and his “condition.”

“Of course,” Elias responds, placing emphasis on every syllable. How the man can make any combination of words sound downright salacious Jon will never know. “I know you’re dedicated to what you do, Jon. I only hope you know that my dedication is the same.”

At this a furrow forms in Jon’s brow, born of both confusion and anger. “I suppose I’m not certain what it is you’re implying, Elias. Is this where you plan to tell me again that Leitner’s death was simply “necessary” and you were “doing your job”? What marvelous dedication you’ve shown, Elias, truly well done.” Jon finishes, angry again at his situation and at Elias for being unerring in reminding him of it. 

Unfazed by the bitter sarcasm lacing Jon’s tone, Elias chuckles lightly before leaning closer to where Jon is still sitting at his desk, chair facing towards the door. “While you are right that Leitner’s death was absolutely necessary for the Institute, that is not, in fact, what I was referring to.” 

When he doesn’t continue, Jon questions, “Well? What are you actually referring to then, Elias? Would it really kill you to simply tell me what you mean instead of dancing around the point like a bloody performance?” He knows he’s been baited into it, can feel how intentional Elias’s pause was, but even that can’t stop him from his frustration. He’s tired, angry, and annoyed, and doesn’t want to spend his time verbally sparring with his murderous boss whose cock he may or may not want to swallow, which is  _ entirely besides the point. _

“I’m talking about you, Jon,” he says, low voiced, staring right into Jon’s eyes. “Part of my job as Head of the Magnus Institute is to take care of my employees and their needs. If there’s a problem in the workplace I take it as my responsibility to assist in resolving it. But I am unable to deal with a problem if it remains a mystery to me.” 

Jon can  _ feel  _ Elias’s eyes tracing his neck as he speaks, which makes it difficult to pay attention to his words. As he does, though, a pit of dread opens in his stomach.  _ He definitely, definitely knows. No chance he doesn’t after this. _ But he still isn’t  _ doing _ anything, is just standing there and looking in and waiting oh so patiently for Jon’s response.

When one doesn’t come, he sighs, looking away from Jon towards the steaming mug of tea for a moment, before turning back to face him. “Is there anything I can do for you, Jon,” he says, and to Jon’s surprise it actually sounds… sincere. Earnest. As if Jon said no this would really, honestly be the last time he asked, but if Jon said yes…

  
Then Jon would be saying  _ yes _ .


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon says yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @GOD SUCK MY ENTIRE DICK ITS FINALLY DONE
> 
> The reasons I did not finish this fic, in order of appearance:  
> 1\. school burnout from hell  
> 2\. a literal pandemic  
> 3\. me just kind of not being into TMA as much anymore  
> 4\. me getting back into TMA but more school burnout at the same time as the literal pandemic
> 
> but its DONE, and I am so pleased with the result, and to those of you who read the first chapter of this when I first wrote it I thank you for your patience and hope this chapter delivers its promise. I am posting this at 12:30 AM and did not edit it at All, so uh, let me know if there are any obvious spelling mistakes? I'm posting this and going to bed.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and thanks again so much for joining me on this ride!

The walk to Elias’s office is… tense, to be certain, but not as bad as Jon had initially feared. No sudden, roaring flushes of shame or desire seem to be doing nearly as much coursing as he’d expected. He’s just… walking silently, half a step behind Elias towards the privacy of his office. What will happen there he can’t say he’s entirely too certain of, but it seems whatever in him that had managed to fear it for so long has simply given up the fight. To be perfectly honest, he’s  _ tired, _ tired of dealing with this on his own and tired of pretending like he doesn’t think Elias has at least  _ one _ kind of… “solution.” 

Elias pulls a key out his pocket and unlocks his office door, opens it and steps back to let Jon enter first. “Please, have a seat,” he says, and Jon sits, more calmly than he feels, in the offered chair. Without realizing it, he seems to have brought the mug of tea that Elias made with him; blinking down at it a bit nonplussed, he thoughtlessly brings it to his lips for a small sip. 

The warmth floods his throat  _ immediately,  _ a blazing rush of sensation that burns its way down, making him inhale sharply before placing the mug down a bit too firmly onto Elias’s desk.

The man in question has taken his time in locking the door and ensuring the blinds to his office are fully closed. Upon noticing Jon looking back at him, he flashes a quick grin, before making his way to the large office chair seated behind his desk. He sits himself in it with a graceful motion, places his arms flat on the desk and looks right into Jon’s eyes with what appears to be sincere concern. “Tell me, Jon,” he begins, and Jon involuntarily swallows. “What can I do for you?” 

Jon allows himself to shudder through one last heavy, nervous breath, before clearing his throat to begin. “I know you know something of my- condition,” he starts, voice lined in faux confidence.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Elias interrupts. “For both our sakes.”

Jon glances up at him with some suspicion, but Elias merely continues, “I cannot offer the  _ fullest _ of my abilities without complete knowledge of the situation, Jon. Would you prefer it if I  _ did  _ already know all the details?”

_ If you’re even asking that question, you almost certainly do,  _ Jon thinks to himself, but knows that this line of thinking won’t get him anywhere. And besides, even beyond all the… complications, the itching sensation is painful enough that if Elias truly did have a solution, it would be worth it. Him even being in Elias’s office right now cedes to that.

“I don’t know how it started,” he begins, “but it seems that reading the statements has- affected me.”

“Affected you how, specifically?” Elias asks, and Jon Knows the question is not entirely innocent.

Jon’s face heats in both embarrassment and frustration as he states, “My- when I speak, my… throat is quite… painful,” he finishes, a bit lamely.

“Painful.” Elias states. It’s not a question, or not spoken like one, but carries an implication that Jon knows he will have to be the one to put into words. 

“It itches,” Jon says, and despite his frustrations towards Elias his frustrations towards the more painful aspects of his condition overcome him. “It itches rather painfully, actually, and drinking liquids has become an utter chore, especially-” and here he pauses, glancing at the mug of tea still in front of him on Elias’s desk.

“Hot ones, I imagine,” Elias concludes, finishing his statement with a sigh. “I am sorry Jon. What you describe sounds greatly unpleasant, and I do wish you’d told me sooner.”

Jon starts to formulate a reply, to explain that he initially thought the aching in his throat was nothing more than an illness, but Elias beats him to it. “That isn’t all it is though, Jon, is it?” 

“I-” Jon starts, Elias’s expression revealing nothing but a neutral openness- and a glint, perhaps, of something more. “I…”  _ think it might be related to my role as Archivist, think reading the statements is making it worse-  _ but what comes out of his mouth is _ “ _ it feels- good.”

Jon feels his face flush with heat, and he mentally berates himself for not picking  _ literally anything else _ from the frantic train of thought rushing through his head. He just- Elias looks so  _ calm, _ just sitting there, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know what to do with any of this at all.

“I think I must misunderstand, Jon,” Elias says, not entirely cutting through the panic. “As you described it, a ‘painful itch,’ would, I imagine, not be  _ too _ pleasant, hmm?” 

“I, ah- no, no it isn’t, but that’s not- well, not  _ entirely _ what I- what I mean to say is-” and even now, even after everything, he can’t bring himself to break through his hesitation until Elias raises his eyebrows with just a  _ touch  _ of impatience, just enough emotion to  _ prove _ to Jon there’s something there, and so he says “when- when I touch it.”

If he wasn’t so hyper aware he might not have noticed the slight release of tension in Elias’s spine, the minute tilt forward, the tilt of his chin to look directly into Jon’s eyes- but he does notice, and he sees in Elias’s eyes that he knows it too. “I see… ‘scratching an itch,’ you might say, then,” and his eyes don’t stop boring their way right into Jon’s, as if he can see every single thought Jon is thinking and is just waiting, patiently, for Jon to drag them out himself, inch by painful inch. 

“Well, ah- no, not- not exactly,” Jon says, and it seems he’s resolved to turn off the part of his brain that makes well-reasoned and rational decisions, as has been happening more and more frequently as of late. “It’s- the area, it’s- very sensitive. To- to liquids, yes, and food, which has been more- more annoying than anything else really, but also to, ah, mmm. Well, to touch. To- when I touch- even just my throat, really-” and Jon watches as Elias’s eyes flick down, just for a moment, to the length of it, “and it’s-” and here Jon raises a hand unthinkingly to his neck, freezes right before the contact. “Well- it feels… overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming,” Elias says, another non-question.

“I- yes. Very… intimate.”

“ _ Intimate,”  _ Elias says,  the vague neutrality of his voice fully falling away to something more. “Well, that  _ is _ interesting,” he says, and without another word he stands, leaving his chair and crossing the distance between them in a few quick steps. “I think I’d like to take a look, if you don’t mind, to really assess the situation.”

Jon flinches back slightly into his chair, mouth parted in surprise. “Take- take a look? At, I mean, in- in my mouth?”

“Jon, really,” Elias says, and something about the disappointment in his voice shoots hot and quick up Jon’s spine. “I simply wish to help ease your discomfort.”

Jon’s brow furrows, but still he nods. He yelps, however, when Elias swings a leg up and over Jon’s, straddling Jon’s thighs and resting lightly in his lap. He splutters for a moment, but quiets when Elias places a gentle finger beneath his chin, effortlessly directing his gaze with a nudge. “Say ahh,” he says, with humor lacing his tone, but all Jon can feel is the fog in his mind as he opens for Elias’s finger. 

But Elias merely rests his hand against Jon’s cheek, using it to maintain his balance as his gaze scans the inside of Jon’s mouth. He feels saliva pool beneath his tongue, swallows once, starts at the electric shock of Elias’s thumb brushing up against his throat as it works. He feels- Elias’s hand, so close, so  _ close, _ and he wants it- he  _ wants _ , with a desperation he’s become more and more accustomed to but never like  _ this,  _ never this  _ urgent,  _ never known the desire to be _ filled _ but he wants-

“Jon,” Elias says, and Jon notices from somewhere beyond himself that he’s been breathing heavily, mouth open, panting onto Elias’s skin. “ _ Jon _ ,” he says again, and Jon closes his mouth so fast he can almost hear the  _ snap. _

“Jon. You need to tell me what you want.” Elias leans in close, what Jon would have considered too close not long ago, what he now considers not  _ nearly close enough,  _ to whisper into Jon’s ear. “How else am I meant to know what you  _ need _ from me?”

Jon can hardly breathe, realizes he is in fact holding his breath, closes his eyes and lets the tension shudder out of him with a slow gasp. He- he can’t  _ say _ it, not even now, not even after everything. 

“Unless you’d prefer I tell you what  _ I  _ want,” he says, and somehow manages not to even look smug about it. 

“I- yes,” he mumbles, eyes still tightly shut in shame.

“Yes? Yes you’ll tell me? Use your words, Jon.”

“Tell- tell me what you want,” Jon says. “ _ Please,”  _ he says, and he opens his eyes.

Elias looks-  _ hungry,  _ and Jon desperately,  _ desperately _ wants to be devoured. “I think I want to touch you,” he says. “I think I want to touch you  _ here,”  _ he says, and presses two fingers against Jon’s waiting lips, slides them in as Jon parts them.

Jon  _ moans  _ against them instantly, shuddering beneath Elias’s hand. Elias quickly brings his other hand to brace himself against Jon’s throat- not squeezing, but touching, and it’s enough to burn another spark of sensation through him. “Oh, very good,” he says, sliding his fingers in and out of Jon’s soaking mouth, trailing wet spit behind them as he slips them fully out before fucking them back in. 

Jon wants to hold him there, keep his clever fingers in his mouth for as long as he can, press them further back into his throat to make him gag. He grips at Elias’s other arm with a whine, but Elias only chuckles, stroking his fingers across the inside of Jon’s cheeks. “Use your  _ words,  _ Jon,” and he only hesitates a moment before he chokes out a muffled “more, please” from around Elias’s wandering fingers. 

“ _ Perfect,”  _ Elias whispers, and he slides a third finger in, presses them all as far as they can go before stopping at the joint of his pinky. He curls them down, presses against Jon’s tongue, scraping his nails along it to make Jon jump and whine, squirming beneath Elias. Jon can feel how hard he is, how hard they both are, but the feeling is an afterthought to the ecstasy of finally having his mouth filled by someone else’s hands, by Elias’s. 

Already, he can feel himself approaching a now-familiar peak, and as Elias says, “Come for me, Archivist,” he is gone, cock still hard and an utterly alien kind of lightning bursting through his mind. He can feel his throat clench hard against the tips of Elias’s fingers, their firmness against the raw skin inside him making him shiver. He shudders one final time as Elias removes his hand, wipes the spit clinging to his fingers across Jon’s cheek, and smiles. “Beautiful,” he says, and through the haze Jon Knows he means it. 

Then, Elias grinds his hips down into Jon’s, making him moan again, finally unmuffled. The sound rings in the quietness of his office, and Elias laughs, pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s cheek before saying, “we’re not done, though, are we Jon?”

At once, the image of himself choking on Elias’s cock fills his mind, and he can think of nothing else as he begs, “I- more,  _ please.” _

Elias leans in and finally,  _ finally  _ kisses him properly, deep and filthy, and the feeling of his tongue against Jon’s own almost makes him scream. He pulls away, murmurs “ _ good boy _ ” against his lips, before climbing off of Jon’s lap to sit, legs spread in invitation, in his own chair. “Come here,” he says, and Jon scrambles to stand, to cross the distance, to kneel in front of Elias on shaky, uncertain legs. To look up at the hard length beneath Elias’s trousers and to swallow, full of both fear and anticipation. 

Elias notices, or at least seems to, says, “don’t worry, Jon. I know you’ll be good for me. A good little hole to fuck, hmm? Isn’t that what you want? For me to fuck your throat?”

“I-  _ oh _ , I don’t-” Jon says, feeling lost and adrift, full of want for something he can’t quite name. “I- yes I- I think-  _ please _ Elias,” he says, knowing Elias will make it simple, knowing Elias will make it so he doesn’t have to think anything at all.

“Come closer, then,” and he’s grateful that that was enough, that Elias knows he needs this  _ now,  _ as Elias undoes his zip, shimmies his trousers down in a way that would be ridiculous for anyone else, but Jon is too distracted by- Elias pulling out his cock, and it’s  _ long,  _ long and beautiful, long enough to slide deeper than anything else Jon’s put in his mouth so far, and it waters at the sight. 

But Elias doesn’t give Jon the chance to consider it any more than that, grabs the back of Jon’s head by the hair and drags him, painlessly but forcefully, to his cock. “That’s it, Jon, just take it,” and when Jon opens his mouth and lets the head slip past his lips Elias hisses, bucks his hips involuntarily and pushes his cock that bit further into Jon’s mouth. “So good, Archivist, Jon,” and Jon can’t take it anymore, doesn’t care about finesse, curls his lips around his teeth and slides all the way down Elias’s cock in one simple, fluid motion.

And it’s  _ deep,  _ pressed against every inch of his mouth and throat, filling him up more than he’s ever been before. His tongue is pressed down against the underside of it, throat working around it, and it’s more than a few seconds before he realizes he has no room for air, isn’t breathing- doesn’t seem to need to. If he was in his right mind he might pay it more attention, but now, in this state of desperation, it only makes him moan around Elias’s cock, knowing that he could keep it pressed down his throat forever, if he wanted to. 

The vibrations make Elias let out a shaky moan of his own, and Jon feels hot at the realization that he,  _ he, _ was the one to make Elias feel like this. “Are you ready, Jon?” Elias murmurs, and Jon thoughtlessly struggles to nod around the length filling his throat. But Elias seems to understand, and in a moment the fullness of his throat is interrupted by the quick and forceful fucking of Elias’s hips somehow deeper still.

Elias keeps his head on the back of Jon’s head, uses it to press his mouth to the base of his cock and back out again, guiding him in turn to the movement of his hips. Jon’s face is spit-streaked, his hair pressed back with sweat, and through the ecstasy he can feel himself crying, tears drying onto his cheeks as he helplessly takes Elias’s cock. 

It presses once against the back of Jon’s throat, a spot his fingers had missed, and just like that he’s choking, throat spasming wildly against the intrusion. He wants to cough but can’t, Elias not slowing his movements, and every thrust mingles with the sweet breathlessness of choking until he comes again with a cry. 

Still Elias doesn’t slow, and Jon thinks that if he could breathe he might scream, though he thinks at the same time that he doesn’t  _ ever _ want this to stop. He grips at Elias’s hips to urge him on, throat still fluttering from the aftershocks, and the feel of Jon’s hands on his hips must spark something because Elias comes down his throat with a breathy moan of his own. The hot spurts fill his mouth and throat, and Jon swallows greedily, whining when Elias tries to pull out. He grips him tighter, begs with a whine for him to stay, but Elias hisses “Jon-  _ Jon, god, ah-”  _ and the sound of him finally completely unruffled makes him fully take stock of what he’s doing and let Elias go. 

Jon-

Jon… breathes, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. He feels- honestly, he feels  _ wonderful,  _ still floating on some kind of high. The itch in his throat has been more than appeased, and it doesn’t hurt at all. He breathes in, holds it, sighs out, trying to center himself, to place what just happened into the fabric of who he is. 

“Jon,” Elias says, snapping him out of it. “Let me see.”

Unthinkingly, Jon opens his mouth again for Elias’s perusal, and this time Elias holds it open with a proprietary thumb hooked into the inside of his cheek. 

“Beautiful,” he says again, and Jon wants to curl up in the face of it. 

“If only you could see yourself,” he says, “so nicely used. I think we’ve done well here today, don’t you Jon?”

Jon just closes his eyes, and says nothing, and silently agrees. 

___

Martin is finally starting to get a little worried.

Jon’s been staying late again, and it had been so  _ nice _ when he’d been going home at a more reasonable hour. And- sure, it was unlike him, and it had seemed strange that Jon never wanted to drink his tea anymore- but at least Martin could be reasonably sure he was getting proper  _ sleep. _ But now he’s burning the midnight candle again, and if he felt like he could he’d say something about it, insist Jon goes home and gets some rest again.

As he’s thinking this, though, he feels someone collide with him, scattering their papers to the floor. “Ah, oh!” he says, upon meeting Jon’s typical harried face. “I- gah, I’m so sorry, here let me, uh, help with that,” and he bends down to help collect the files into some semblance of order.

The two shuffle through papers silently for a few moments, before Martin gathers his courage. “I’ve been meaning to ask- I noticed you’re staying late again, and I just wanted to say-”

“I’ve been ill,” Jon interrupts, and it feels like a non-sequitur. 

“I- oh, well, I’m, ah, glad you’re better, I suppose, but I wanted to-”

“I am. Better, that is. It’s- it’s better, and I won’t need to leave early anymore, Martin.” Without waiting for a response, Jon starts to walk away, before turning to offer a timid, “thank you for your concern, Martin, but I’m doing much better now.”

And then he’s gone, and Martin is left standing in the hallway, certain of almost nothing except for the fact that this- this definitely isn’t better.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks cupcakke for work title, yes OF COURSE its from deepthroat im cultured


End file.
